in the interim
by In Paradisum
Summary: The fledgling peace struggles to spread its wings. An army without a war to fight becomes a gathering of purposeless souls, stragglers without a flag. - Fire Emblem: Awakening oneshots set during the two-year timeskip, mainly Chrom and M!Robin, with others. Varies between friendship and romance. [3. Chrom becomes engaged. Robin is less than pleased.]
1. i

a/n: hello there readers! i should probably start off with a disclaimer that, typically authoring fics of different fandoms, my FE:A writing will probably suffer a bit right off the bat. knowing that i have never written for or played a Fire Emblem game, i decided to dip my toes in figuratively with some oneshots - the ones set in the two-year timeskip will be a part of this collection, which will update sporadically as i am hit by more ideas.

these will focus mostly on chrom and m!robin, shippy or not, though others may/will be included. (i don't have any plans at the moment to write f!robin material, but i will definitely specify if that changes.)

disclaimer: everything fire emblem: awakening related belongs to intelligent systems and/or nintendo, i own nothing but the sentence order.

this first oneshot is just sort of bromancey drabble! nothing super heavy.

as always, please enjoy!

* * *

in the interim -

* * *

The flame of the candle flickered and sputtered, fighting to continue burning as the puddle of hot wax crept further and further up the wick, diminishing every now and then as it followed the path of least resistance and found a way to escape the crater at the center, pouring down the outside of the candle and cooling again into wax droplets. It had been burning for precisely eight hours and thirty-two minutes, though Robin had lost track somewhere around four hours. The jagged shadows called forth by the flame's meager struggle danced over the pages of the tome that lay open on his desk, making it ever more difficult to decipher the runes contained within; the tactician considered retiring for the evening, but brushed the thought away. An analysis on the effects of updrafts on the speed, distance, and energy consumption of a pegasus' flight pattern wasn't something he could readily apply on his own time, but he knew he had relied a little too much on intuition when dictating orders to Sumia, Cordelia, and the others on the battlefield. It was up to him to know exactly what he was dealing with on those counts, no matter if it wasn't a principle that applied directly to him.

As he was considering this, a light tapping of knuckles on his door caused the young man to start just slightly, startled from his thoughts by the sudden sound. He leaned back in his chair, the folds of his tacticians' robe shuffling as he shifted. "Yes?" he called in answer, not turning around or rising to receive his visitor.

His suspicions were confirmed when the door opened, and something rattled and flapped.

"There you are," the exalt-to-be sighed, mock-exasperated. "I've been looking for you all over. When you weren't at dinner, I feared the worst."

At that comment, the white-haired tactician turned in his seat. "Chrom," he greeted. Then a note of wry amusement crept into his voice, sensing the subtle teasing. "And what constitutes "the worst" in this context?"

The navy-haired man chuckled. "Merely I'd feared I would find you buried in dusty tomes and wax!" he joked, before turning serious, blue eyes sharpening as he regarded Robin's environment with thinly-veiled dislike. "If I didn't know better, I would think you thought us to still be at war. For the meantime, all is well and we have naught to fear – peacetime is to be enjoyed with friends and family, you know."

An ivory eyebrow tweaked upward. "A strategist's duty is never fulfilled," Robin quipped, though he did his level best to avoid Chrom's gaze.

The young lord stared at his best friend for a few moments, before he shook his head and let his eyes dance around the dim room. The feeble candle melded with light from torches in the hallway, touching on the stone floor covered in a rich wine-colored rug, the sizable bed made neatly with white sheets that appeared grey in the poor lighting, the window set in the opposite wall, and the bare stone walls surrounding the wooden desk and chair: the only real signs of occupation were found there, in books stacked eight-tall and discarded ink and parchment - and the candle that struggled not to drown in its own wax.

"Come," said Chrom suddenly, gaze settling back on the slightly younger man. "Let's go for a walk."

Rather than protest, Robin only exhaled and rose to his feet with a surrendering nod. His following comment was, however, met with dark blue eyebrows knitting together, as a quiet "as you wish, Sire," was uttered.

Deciding not to respond, he only stepped back, out of the shorter man's way as Robin continued past, starting down the hallway as Chrom blew out the lonely candle, closing the door as he exited. His ever-present cape snapped in the rustle of wind as he hurried to catch up to the tactician, wordlessly taking the lead.

It was evident he had a destination in mind, as he angled towards a flight of stairs that led upwards - and, unsurprisingly, Robin immediately fell to analyzing their path.

He didn't recognize this wing, but figured they were moving northward, possibly towards the exalt's quarters. Not that he could offer an explanation as to why.

That theory was quickly debunked with a sudden turn right, and the tactician frowned lightly as he tailed the young lord by a few feet.

A door and a tiny spiral staircase down later, Robin was fairly close to losing his bearings completely. The narrow hallway in which they now found themselves was only dimly lit, the spaces between the ensconced torches double that of the more common thoroughfares. Gray stone pressed in, but Chrom continued on as if unaware. Of course he knew his way around the royal lodgings like the back of his hand - he had lived here his entire life, the tactician mused. However, it was still disconcerting to realize he would be entirely lost without the exalt-to-be's guidance: three months of living in Ylisstol, and he had had not an inkling of a pathway like this existing.

The last door opened onto a broad balcony, a hidden alcove the size of the banquet hall that held nothing of interest besides a row of pillars supporting the outer edge of the building above and, just beyond those, an ornamental stone railing spanning eighty feet from one end of the open space to the other.

The royal garden lay three stories below, shrubs and trees arranged in whimsical patterns, and if Robin tilted his head just so, that clearing right there looked like the one in which the woman who had masqueraded as Marth had come delivering news of Emmeryn's impending assassination - and wasn't that a cheery thought for a summer evening?

Cicadas buzzing broke the only silence as the exalt-to-be continued on to the edge of the balcony, resting his bare hands on the stone railing as he let his eyes wander over the spires of Ylisstol in the distance.

Chrom spoke at last, a considerable time after Robin had stepped up next to him, unconsciously mirroring his posture. "This was one of her favorite spots to come and think," the older man said wistfully, not shifting even as his companion's gaze flicked to him. "After council meetings, she would disappear for hours at a time. Lissa found Emm here by accident two years ago. We used to take turns bringing her plates of sweets." The thought trailed off abruptly as he frowned, blue eyes shifting slightly upward and to the right, remembering.

Robin followed his lead a few beats later, but let his eyes fall to his hands instead. The large sleeve of his coat almost obscured a jagged scar that ran from the back of his hand to midway down his forearm; only the edge of it could be seen, a darker line marring pale skin. He'd gotten that one from Regna Ferox, at the Longfort: he had misjudged the speed of an armored soldier wielding a lance, when he had still been a tactical novice, and had barely made it to Chrom's side in time to knock the stab away.

Cold iron in his hands, and he isn't used to the grip but the weight is a considerable step up from the bronze blade that had finally surrendered just a short while past - stumble through a snowdrift (the resistance is familiar but he doesn't expect it to feel so cold) because there is a hole in his right flank and Chrom isn't looking, isn't looking -

"I wanted to share this with you," his closest friend said suddenly, jarring Robin from his thoughts. Chrom's smile was gentle - if pained. "Perhaps you might find the peace of mind that Emm sought when she came here."

Knowing and sensing the sentiment behind the gift, intangible as it was, Robin cleared his throat. "Thank you, Chrom," he said sincerely, honored by the gesture.

A warm summer breeze stirred the leaves of the trees below, gusting upward - eddies of air stirred and carded through the hair of the two men on the balcony, evening-blue and cloud-white, and tugged at their clothing, disturbing a pale cape and a dark coat.

Chrom cleared his throat suddenly, as if embarrassed, and Robin turned to him.

"There's one other thing," the lordling said. Hesitantly. In lieu of elaboration, he turned to rummage in the pocket of his trousers, producing a small box with an "ah" of recognition.

"Chrom -?" Robin started to inquire, but swallowed the question as his friend straightened and offered him the package in one calloused hand. Uncertainly, the tactician reached out to take the small wooden box, noting absently that his fingers were much slimmer than Chrom's.

The swirl of the wood grain emphasized the dome shape of the lid. A hinge on one side assured that the box's parts would stay connected; the resistance of the joint was such that it took a little bit of effort to pry the capsule open, enough so that Chrom almost reached over to assist the tactician with the endeavor - but once pale fingers found purchase, it opened gently, revealing a velvet-edged interior.

The trinket contained inside was sharp-edged at points, but that wasn't the only reason Robin handled it carefully. Letting the pendant rest in his palm, he found himself to be without words. The pad of a thumb ran along the dip of the outstretched wing, the thrice-curled tail sitting securely against the side of his palm; the intricate detail of the silver dragon made the pendant seem as if it would come to life at any moment and breathe fire - an inferno escaping past the large chunk of turquoise clasped securely in its reptilian jaws.

"Emmeryn was fond of precious stones and crystals," Chrom said, not meeting Robin's eyes as the tactician's gaze was torn away from the gift. "She had a weakness for crystal readings - there was a rumor she had them done morning, noon, and night to consult the fates, but I'd only ever seen them when she had doubted her own decisions."

The navy-haired man swallowed sharply. "I came across that necklace in a shop in Ylisstol, and it reminded me so heavily of you that I could hardly let it fall into another's grasp."

At that point, he turned to face the strategist fully, an earnest turn to his lips. "Robin, from the day you joined the Shepherds - no, even before that - from the day Lissa and Frederick and I came across you in that field, you have led us fair and true. Because of you, many more Ylisseans are still alive. Because of you, I'm still alive." He paused to breathe. "You have lived with us for three months now. In all of that time, I have struggled with how to say what I've wanted to say - but I believe that pendant speaks for me.

"Robin, you will always have a home here with us. Because you have become just as much a part of this family as any relative." Suddenly the lordling clapped the tactician on the shoulder. "Brothers tied not by blood, but forged of steel - a bond that's just as strong, Brand or not."

It took Robin a moment to swallow past the lump in his throat, in which time the exalt-to-be withdrew his had with a sheepish look. "Chrom, I -" he started to say, but shook his head. "You had no obligation to show me such kindness. I was only a stranger to you that day, even if you weren't such to me." He still had no explanation for why Chrom's name had remained in his memory, when nothing else had. "Truthfully, you and the Shepherds are all I have now," he said quietly. "Despite - and even because of - that, to be welcomed into your family is... an unbelievable honor."

He frowned. "In fact, I don't know if I have the words to express my full gratitude. You owed me nothing and yet you gave me so much: a home, a family, a purpose." Russet eyes flicked down, then upward again, focusing on sharp blue. "I hope that someday I might be able to repay that kindness. Probably not in full, but at least in part."

The exalt-to-be grinned at his best friend comfortingly. "In some ways, you already have," he said. "Remember that you've earned your place here. With us."

The wafting summer breeze picked up again for only a shadow of an instant, brushing the ends of Robin's hair from his face as he nodded, bringing with it the sound of rustling leaves and the scent of a Ylisstol summer night.

"So!" Chrom said loftily. "Brothers?"

Robin clasped the outstretched hand in his own, the pendant safe curled in the other. The smile he gave the Ylissean heir was genuine.

"Brothers," he answered.


	2. ii

a/n: whoops, i should probably clear up a misconception i perpetrated. Awakening is actually the first Fire Emblem game i've played - however, i'm currently playing Path of Radiance also, and i have FE:A to thank for introducing me to such a lovely franchise! ahhh!

i'm not sure how i'm doing with characterization (robin is suspiciously difficult for being a deuteragonist...), but in this one i actually shifted focus from robin and chrom (oh no!). i like libra a whole lot more than i really should, and tharja has been steadily growing on me. thus, this happened.

disclaimer: everything fire emblem: awakening related belongs to intelligent systems and/or nintendo, i own nothing but the sentence order.

as always, please enjoy!

* * *

in the interim ii-

* * *

The dust particles swayed, shining golden in the afternoon rays that soaked through high windows. Multicolored splotches of illumination spread over dark wood and stone, crystallized butterflies frozen to the floor and pews of the place of worship, smelling of must and incense and prayers offered.

Within these walls, peace reigned. A comfortable silence rested as if a blanket over the air within, calm and quiescent. Only the steady breathing of a single individual stirred the atmosphere.

Head bent in worship, straight blonde locks cascading down over his robed shoulders, Libra paid respect in prayer at the height of noon. His lips moved soundlessly, shaping words of thanks for the sun and the grass and the peace that attended Ylisse in the wake of the Mad King's fall. Though he also prayed for more private things - purity and, selfishly, forgiveness.

The dust swirled into a sudden hurricane, the stillness of the small church disrupted by the gentle creak of its large oaken doors being pushed shyly open. At the first instant of disturbance, the priest jolted, as if torn from reverie, rising sheepishly to his feet as if ashamed to be caught praying; this reaction was odd in and of itself, given that the young man was a member of the clergy, but none were keen enough to witness his lapse.

Instead, the shaft of light that spilled into the place of worship at the back of the room admitted from its depths the figure of a slight young woman, a girl whose head peeked inside the building before the rest of her being followed behind - tentatively, as if doing something she ought not be doing.

Once she stepped away from the light, a noise of recognition escaped Libra's mouth, simultaneously allowing the priest to relax and causing him to tense with... not quite suspicion, but more of a guarded interest, as he descended from the dais with measured steps.

The young woman pressed the door closed behind her, not taking her eyes off of the sunlit head of the room and the man standing at the foot of the small steps leading to it as she let the weight of her body set the oak back in its place.

"The priest," she droned, voice flat and disinterested as ever. "What a surprise."

Apparently unaffected by her tone, Libra's visage remained blank. "Tharja," he said, not unkindly, inclining his head in her direction. "Your presence here is -" he paused, looking for the right word, "- surprising, though not unwelcome. What brings a Grimleal to this holy place of prayer?"

She raised an eyebrow, continuing forward even as she regarded her acquaintance with apparent distaste. "Not going to beat around the bush, then?" she inquired, but failed to stage the statement as a question. Padding across the long, dusty red carpet in feet that were conspicuously shoeless but wrapped in a thick, dark fabric, her form - sharp-cut raven tresses framing a thin face, fragile but almost indecently-bared body, stick limbs folded securely around a book in her arms (not a tome, the priest noted with interest) - became as clear and defined as her bored expression. Her demeanor was... almost haughty.

A lesser man may have taken offense at her manner, especially considering the dark mage's choice of faith and her current location, but Libra took Tharja's actions in stride, waiting patiently for the approaching Plegian to reach him.

She pointedly did not answer his question, but did let her eyes wander from one stained-glass window to another. "It reeks," she observed suddenly as she looked upon an image of the Divine Dragon. "Like stale magic."

"My apologies," Libra allowed gently, clasping his hands before himself. "It is my preference to burn incense when in prayer. I find sandalwood to be quite calming - if you may pardon my candor, I had not expected a visitor."

"In a public church."

At her simultaneously flat, skeptical, and incredulous tone, the priest inclined his head slightly, allowing the sorceress the point. "There are many who offer prayers only in time of great strife. This is true of any religion."

Tharja came to a halt before the blond man. Thin, sheer fabric-covered arms twined around the book held tight to her chest - yet the rest of her posture exuded an almost arrogant sort of confidence. The observation puzzled Libra once he had made it.

Her dark eyes were guarded. "So," she said. "Here?"

His chin dipped again. "My brothers and sisters in faith have been gracious and welcoming. I wish only to be able to worship, and to serve Lord Chrom as I served Lady Emmeryn, have he ever need of my staff or my axe." However, the way the sentence ended - cleaved as if by the same weapon he wielded - left a conspicuous few beats of silence that yawned, as if he had been about to say more but had decided against it.

"Mm." Tharja hummed in response, gazing around at the vaulted yet simple house of worship again, more intrigued than defensive. Again, knowing the faith which the magician actively practiced, the priest was pleasantly surprised.

"You seem comfortable," he remarked lightly, mildly.

At his statement, the young woman glanced at him sharply. The venom in her eyes was an automatic response; dry, like stale poison. However, the intensity was not diminished as he was regarded with a discerning stare.

Seeing no trace of humor or meaningful twist to his visage, Tharja took the man's comment at face value. "Churches are all the same. Little buildings where people can pretend someone is listening to what they want." There was hardly an antagonistic tone to her voice, no more so than usual: merely, she stated her opinions as they were held, with frankness that Libra found refreshing.

Rather than take offense to her opinion, the war monk blinked in interest. "You are not of the Grimleal faith?" he inquired curiously. It made sense, but the very notion challenged his held belief that all Plegians were Grimleal. _Are they not?_

The sorceress pursed her lips tightly for a heartbeat and a half. "Not by choice. And I'm not very agreeable to things being forced on me."

"Few are," Libra agreed. "Do you seek freedom in Ylisse, then?"

Tharja chuckled, as if the comment amused her. "You of all people should understand what a lie this thing called 'freedom' is." Skating past the delicate subject with more poise than would be expected of the dark-witted, introverted young woman, a small smile graced her features - one that sent shivers running down Libra's spine for indiscernible reasons. "I would follow the object of my affections to the end of the earth. This puny halidom is the land he loves. As long as the apothecaries are halfway decent..."

He was surprised at himself for having expected anything but that answer. She had changed little in these few months. "And where is Robin on such a fine day?" the blond man inquired, voice kept carefully level.

"With the idiot prince and his entourage," she droned drily. "At a bakery down the avenue. The klutz asked for pie-making tips." The displeasure in her voice was evident. "My love is getting... edgy."

Rather than consider Tharja's strange ability at more than a surface level (evidently the work of a hex of some kind, which was frightening in and of itself), Libra allowed a tiny quirk of his lips, amused by the image of Sumia holding up the group discussing the finer points of baking.

"Hm," Tharja articulated suddenly, dark eyes snapping to Libra. "You –"

"Yes?" Libra asked, the gentle sound of his voice masking the fact that he had quite deliberately interrupted her.

Raven tresses swayed as she tossed her head almost impatiently. "Don't play dumb with me," she implored sharply. "Your heartbeat stuttered like a frightened rabbit. What's got _you _nervous?"

His normally placid and unflappable demeanor seemed unchanged - except for a tightness in his neck and jaw that belied displeasure of some kind. "It's nothing," he intoned, an undercurrent of pleading in his soft speech.

The sorceress regarded him again with a deeply searching stare. Libra's jaw clenched tighter, but the expression on his face remained pleasant - for fifty seconds, the scrutiny went uninterrupted, as the priest and the dark mage held each other's gazes.

As the fifty-first second passed, a small coil of smoke rose up, undulating in serpentine form as the last inch of the very last stick of incense collapsed into ash upon the altar at the head of the dais.

At the same time, a throaty giggle escaped from Tharja's mouth, a soft smile breaking over her lips. "... You can sense it too," she said, regarding Libra with an almost renewed sense of respect. A glow seemed to animate her usually flat features.

His already feminine, pale complexion had grown even a few shades whiter, as the blond dipped his head in response. "There is great change approaching. Slumbering, ready to be awakened."

"And _he _will be at its center," she veritably cooed. "He is _more_... I can feel it."

Tharja may be content to stand on the edge of a precipice with her arms flung wide, but Libra much preferred solid ground all around. He had not fear, only a frightful kind of trepidation - as he felt that, whatever this change may be... it was nothing good.

"You don't trust him around the prince," she said knowingly.

The tenseness in the frame of his shoulders spoke volumes.

Undeterred, the Plegian smiled again. (The excitement in her features that had always remained absent seemed unnatural when it finally arose.) "Keep offering prayers to your Divine Dragon. Perhaps the next one will be heard. Or the next..."

Her intent was not to be vicious for the sake of being vicious - only she reveled in discussing the subject, and happened to be of the frank opinion that prayers were nothing if not useless. Even knowing this of Tharja, it nonetheless took Libra a second to purse his lips and swallow a scathing rebuttal. (That was not his way, and he wanted to be angry at her for provoking it; but he could only truly blame himself. After all, he was of the most use on the battlefield, was he not? Though he wanted to avoid that truth, he knew she was right. Staying secluded would do nothing - but neither was he to raise unnecessary alarm by requesting an audience with Lord Chrom and speaking of his concerns. No, this would have to be done gently...)

His voice was steely with resolve. "I will do what I must to protect this world," he swore, drawing an honestly surprised glance from Tharja. _Vindication. _"I count both you and Robin among my comrades - my friends. But if we meet next as enemies, then so be it."

He didn't even want to entertain the notion that he might have to turn against his fellow soldiers. But the inkling of a seed of an idea as to what the source of the winds of change they felt could be pressed at him... while he hoped, desired, _prayed _he was wrong, the doubt persisted.

"I'm impressed," the sorceress said sincerely, the ironic lilt to her voice being characteristic of her nature and style of speaking more so than intentional irony of the phrase. "Make sure you keep that resolve so you can find it again if... _when _the time comes."

Sweeping the cloth pieces of her ensemble to herself, she turned on one heel and made to leave. "I appreciate the hospitality, priest of Naga," she called over her shoulder as she went.

"Tharja," Libra said, not having stirred from his position, waiting for the young woman to look back to him. She did so, and as their eyes met again, a sincere expression of kindness spread across his visage. "I pray," he said, "you find the answers you are searching for."

An imperceptible widening of her eyes that couldn't possibly be seen from the fifteen feet that separated them was her only response. A few seconds passed as their eyes stayed locked, however; the pair presented an odd image, a priest standing tall and a sorceress paused in motion, half-angled to depart, dark wood pews and candlelight pooling around them, rays of stained-glass light casting odd hues over the warm-colored church.

"Pfft," Tharja eventually articulated, allowing the dismissive puff of breath to escape her lips. "Hold onto that drivel for confessions."

* * *

**footnote: **the book tharja is holding is a condensed history on the religion that worships naga - hence libra's last statement.


	3. iii

a/n: hey readers! i updated faster than i thought i would - i wrote this one mostly parallel to the installation just previous, so it came together pretty quickly. the end is rather... i won't say, but if there's enough interest in me resolving this plot line later, i might do so.

this 'shot marks the first one with shippy content, but it's only PG one sided (mostly) stuff so i'm sorry for not contributing to the smut archive or anything x)

**warnings: this chapter contains m!robin/chrom at a PG level. you have been warned.**

disclaimer: everything fire emblem: awakening related belongs to intelligent systems and/or nintendo, i own nothing but the sentence order.

as always, please enjoy!

* * *

_in the interim iii -_

* * *

It took an impressive amount of physical agility to manage to remain completely spotless as the tactician stormed through the camp, still rife here and there with muddy potholes that were the result of horses and supply carts mixed with the earlier heavy rain. Jubilations arose around the fuming young man, voices raised in cheer and song - the fall of Gangrel had come not hours earlier, and with no dead to tend, the soldiers had already fallen to opening the caskets - the less morbid kind.

However, merrymakers were quick to dart out of Robin's path, apparently not daring to cross the usually amiable strategist on his warpath. He had thought to pull up his hood to cover his face, but his coat itself was iconic enough that he stuck out as boldly as a pegasus among horses; when it had slipped down to expose snow-white locks, he paid the garb no attention, nimbly sidestepping the remnants of a shattered axle that had been almost swallowed by the waterlogged muck.

"Robin!" Vaike called loudly, raising a hand in greeting as he poked his head out of a tent twenty feet ahead. The mug of what was probably cheap ale sloshed as he swung it about, the two tankards in his other hand miraculously retaining their contents.

Unable to muster the calmness to offer a kind smile and return wave, he settled for nodding to the brawler as he passed. Apparently this was dissatisfactory, as Vaike cut him off by sliding into his way and waving a tankard under his nose.

"Why the long face, eh? We won! It's over! Come to the party - tell ya what, the Vaike'll drink you under the table. C'mon."

Lurching backward as a reflex to the sudden invasion of his space, Robin tried again to offer a friendly quirk of his lips, if nothing else. The expression contorted into a sort of half-grimace - the liquor smelled positively_ horrid,_ on top of his mood. "I'll have to pass this time," the tactician said quickly, slipping around the half-clothed, half-drunk warrior with agility. "But thank you!"

Vaike growled something unintelligible, more preoccupied with retaining a hold on his three tankards than on the strategist who had just escaped him.

Remembering the reason for his frustration, Robin continued onward, dodging the two cavaliers engaged in a friendly tussle to encouraging shouts (Stahl was putting up only a token resistance, obviously more than happy to let his new wife hand his ass to him). He drew the edges of his long coat closer to himself, shivering slightly in the autumn air.

Chrom's tent was pitched near the other side of the camp, denoted by a single panel of blue emblazoned with the Brand of the Exalt hanging on the side. Gritting his teeth, Robin shouldered his way into the entrance flap, ducking and tilting his head a few degrees to the left and using his arm to guide the flap away from his body.

The lord looked up with a jerk of his head, perched on his cot with a rag and Falchion in his lap, polishing the blade until it shone. "Ah, Robin," he said brightly, letting the rag fall to the sparse bed next to him. But at the sight of the dark look on his best friend's face, he froze. "What -"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Robin growled, his fists clenched, drowned in his large sleeves.

Not following, Chrom set Falchion aside and rose to his feet. "Has something happened?" he inquired, a thoughtful turn to his lips.

The tactician failed to meet his eyes. "I heard it from Frederick and Lissa. You know, I would have preferred for you to _tell_ me -"

"Robin, you're not making any sense," Chrom interrupted, the declaration coming out somewhat harsher than intended; the Ylissean heir winced slightly even as his friend jolted. "What's happened?" he asked belatedly, tone turning apologetically soft.

"You know perfectly well what's happened!" Robin's voice cracked rather embarrassingly on the last word - an angry flush rose up under his skin, dyeing his cheeks a soft rose, but the nameless emotion present in russet eyes left the young lord feeling as if he were rooted to the ground, seeing that expression turned on him when the tactician finally met his eyes.

"Robin -" He had never, ever seen the strategist so emotional over something - and it was a painful sight, especially considering Chrom had absolutely no idea as to what could be amiss. (He had the beginnings of a suspicion that it wasn't related to the Shepherds as an entity, as Robin was perfectly capable of separating his rational and emotional sides in the event of a crisis: his levelheadedness under pressure was one of the larger reasons as to why he was such a valuable asset as a strategist.)

The shorter man's voice turned decidedly dark. "One should not," he began, articulating each word precisely, "learn of his best friend's engagement to the woman of his dreams from_ gossip in the barracks_."

Chrom went very, very pale in a very, very short amount of time - the blood drained from his visage like an emptying basin in the face of Robin's (quite rational) irritation. "I'm -" the blue-haired man began, floundering for some words to save him because yes, Robin was entirely right, and he had no idea what he had been thinking and no, that's not something you forget to tell your tactician, but that same white-haired young man cut him off - miraculously.

"Chrom," Robin said, the name coming out sharper than intended; he paused and took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing, more steadily, "I know you're still hurting after Emm- your sister," he corrected himself for better tact. "We all are. But now isn't the time for rash decisions -"

A sudden flare of anger burned away Chrom's embarrassment. _How dare he? "Don't bring Emm into this,"_ he growled, squaring his shoulders instinctively. "And don't you _dare_ suggest that I proposed to Sumia out of grief!"

Robin quailed under the aggressive turn to Chrom's voice, averting his eyes shamefully. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I shouldn't have said that. I just - I _worry_, Chrom. I wish we would have discussed -"

"There's nothing to discuss," the princeling said sharply. "Robin, your skill in military tactics is unparalleled, and I count you among my dearest friends, but matters of my heart have _nothing_ to do with you -"

_"I know that -_"

"Then what does it matter?" The blue-haired man's voice was rough. "The circumstances of my engagement ought remain between Sumia and myself. Robin, I don't need a wet nurse meddling in my love life, and I_ fail_ to see how it matters to you!"

"That's exactly my point!" Robin responded, the timbre of his voice unexpectedly shrill - but he was beyond the point of caring. The fabric of his coat wrinkled in his tight grip, knuckles whitening as he tried to quell a desperate urge. "You're blind as a bat, and you don't_ understand._" Unable to lock gazes with his closest friend, brown eyes dipped down as his head turned to the side. His jaw clenched, as if holding back something, keeping it buried within himself.

Chrom frowned lightly, comprehending that more was amiss than he had thought, and some of the fire of his outrage dimmed as he took in the tactician: Robin's shoulders hunched up defensively, mouth pressed into a thin white line, hanging back like a hunted animal.

"What is it that I don't understand?" he asked, plainly and with considerable intensity. There was indeed a piece that he found himself missing - but he wanted answers, and he would not settle for anything less than a complete explanation.

A beat passed. And then another. Gaze flicking once to Chrom and then back away, Robin's eyelids dropped for but a moment, squeezing tightly shut as he inhaled slowly and deeply, shoulders and chest expanding. He drew himself up, looking conflicted - but when russet met sapphire once more, something twisted, a deep emotion entering caramelized irises.

"This," he said with determination, stepping forward with his right foot and leaning up and in - his arm rose, the sleeve of his coat falling down slightly to expose his pale, ungloved, unmarred (left) hand, slipping and tangling naturally in azure locks, as he rose up onto the balls of his feet, closing the distance to press firm and dry lips against Chrom's mouth.

Caught off-guard by the unexpected movement, the Ylissean's hand drifted almost automatically to rest on Robin's hip, fingers catching on the folds of fabric and the belt holding his underclothing secure. For a few slow seconds, the situation remained unprocessed in the young lord's mind, leaving him acting more or less on physical autopilot - until he caught up with what was happening around him. His eyelids snapped open (when had they closed?) to snowy hair and a smooth, pale face, bearing no evidence of the harsh Plegian sun, and - oh gods, he was _kissing Robin_ - his tactician, and another man to boot!

He tightened his grip to push the slighter man away, a bubble of... not quite panic rising and threatening to burst in his chest, but before he could extend his arm and drive both of their forms apart - Robin's head tilted slightly to the side, a minuscule parting of his lips against Chrom's allowing a warm sigh of a breath to be traded from one mouth to another; the sensation was unexpected, and it elicited a shiver on Chrom's part as more of Robin's weight came to rest upon him, and - oh, gods, he had gotten distracted again, and this entire situation was indisputably

_(pleasant)_

unusual, and he observed with lake-blue eyes as his tactician's lashes fluttered, much in the manner of the bird he was named for, eyelids opening gently to reexamine the world around him.

Upon reaching half-mast, they jerked open with sudden force, followed by a startled blink - then russet orbs cleared, and the alabaster-haired young man forced himself backward and out of Chrom's grip by splaying bare hands on the other man's front and pushing, flushing and retreating as he did his best not to stumble. "Chrom, I - forgive me -"

"H-how long?" the Ylissean interrupted, cursing himself for the stutter he had not been able to eliminate.

Trying to hold his gaze and ultimately failing, Robin licked his lips and looked away. "Since...after the tournament in Regna Ferox," he admitted, a subtle wince following the confession. A shadow of a moment later, a torrent of words tumbled out of his mouth. "Please forgive me. I wasn't thinking rationally, and I overstepped your boundaries in more ways than one. I swear it will never happen again -"

"Robin," Chrom cut in, long before he had any idea what to say in response; he only knew that the continuous stream of apology was wholly unnecessary (and frankly almost upsetting) because, within the mixed tangle of emotions that he was still attempting to comprehend, irritation and discomfort were certainly nowhere to be found.

The way shocked and almost frightened caramel eyes froze on his made something twist in Chrom's chest. "There's no need to apologize," he found himself saying, taken aback by how sincere the statement was.

The other young man was still tense, as if prepared to flee. The gradually fading rose tint to his visage drew Chrom's attention, and for what may very well be the first time, he noticed how truly striking the strategist's features were - somehow equal parts firm and soft at the same time.

He made as if to argue, but the frown etched into the face of the leader of the Shepherds bade his tactician pause. After another few seconds of sustained silence, he inhaled sharply through his nose - squared his shoulders and stood up straighter, shaking the tension out of his frame.

"It's for the best that I leave the Shepherds," Robin stated, overriding the objection that Chrom had already begun to form before he had even finished speaking. "I'm not - much use for anything but tactics, and now that the war is over -"

Azure eyebrows drew together into a tight V. "Robin..."

A few scattered shouts sounded just outside the tent as soldiers paraded past, drunk on excitement and cheap liquor; a boisterous call from past the outer tent flap was especially loud, given that they were both standing rather close together, Robin with his back to the entrance. The occurrence made both of them very aware of their surroundings - and their proximity.

"I - I need to think," Robin said, pointedly not looking at Chrom as he began to turn. "Excuse me."

He was halfway out when Chrom's strong hand gripped his wrist, catching his attention; the tactician looked back, startled, for the fraction of a heartbeat.

"Robin, wait -" the Ylissean managed to say, but the mixed expression on his friend's face brought him up short before the latter could school his visage back into commission.

At his commander's pause, the tactician looked down, pulled his arm from Chrom's grip, and left the tent in silence.

A few moments passed before Chrom let his arm drop to his side, eyes lingering on the flap as it gradually stilled, losing momentum. He then sighed, raising his hands to rub gently at his temples and sitting down on the edge of his cot, near Falchion.

He had thought his problems would have ceased with the fall of Gangrel.

... How wrong he had been.


End file.
